


god's dead(baby, that's alright with me)

by orphan_account



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy Kink, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 02:38:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7959076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it irks you, how you know all the different constellations formed in the kid’s freckles, how he withers and fades and yes, betrays you, but your heart still aches with adoration just at the sight of his face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	god's dead(baby, that's alright with me)

the first time you fuck him again is in a cheap motel, one where the owner doesn’t ask questions and cheap neon lights illuminate his scrawny(you think they’d do a better job at the police academy the brat attended) body. it irks you, how you know all the different constellations formed in the kid’s freckles, how he withers and fades and yes, **_betrays you_** , but your heart still aches with adoration just at the sight of his face.

***  
the minute the plane takes off, you take hold his hand. your partner in crime, lover, baby boy, life insurance, personal judas.

you envision riding down the busy streets of amsterdam, your hand resting on his firm thigh, starlight in his eyes, getting rid of the map and throwing yourself to the unknown labyrinth of streets, playing dress up in black suits and different personalities. but then you remember mr orange-fuck, freddy- planned to sold you to the cops over a promotion even after lazy afternoons in bed, car rides and his head resting on your lap as he read his stupid comic books.

(‘i’d really like to go to amsterdam one day, larry.’

‘after the job is done, sweet boy.’ you say and kiss the cut on his knee as he hisses before you put on the plaster. he kisses you and swallows the questions you had about how he got a cut and how you, an old crook, managed to land this wonderful boy with face dusted with freckles and sunlight)

***

some days he cries for what’s lost, he cries because he’s sorry he did this to you and tearfully climbs in your lap and takes your hand in his and puts it on his cheek as you shush him and kiss away his tears and think of another place to go to, another way to make him let out his poison sweet giggle because he might slip from your frail fingers.

‘take me to bed, daddy.’

he pushes back against you harder, bites the back of his hand until the metallic taste of blood floods his mouth and looks back at you as if to let you know that he’s punishing himself for you, where it aches, where it hurts, where it sings. you turn him over on his back and brush your lips against his, not giving him the satisfaction of doing that.

(‘have you killed anyone, larry?’

‘not people, just police.’)

***

some day he cries for what’s lost, he cries because he’s sorry you did this to him and scrapes his nails against the hotel room walls, throws around the suitcases and punches the wall until the old wounds on his knuckles open again, a bizarrely beautiful red mess painted the wall.

you wait, counting the dots on the wallpaper and building bridges with your mind just to set them on fire. he strides towards you and stops with his fists mere inches away from your face and he lets out a horrible cry that makes you wish he did punch you after all.

you bandage his hands patiently as he looks at you, his lungs clouded with adrenaline, inhaling the smell of the alcohol you disinfect his wounds with and exhaling decay and hatred.

(‘evening, larry. sorry i’m late, ran into an old buddy of mine.’

‘evening, officer newandyke.’)

***

you travel through europe, the skeleton of the days past weighing on you as you drive, putting more and more distance between your freddy and freddy the rat. your freddy is leafing through a trashy magazine in a language he doesn’t know. freddy the rat’s handsome is probably on the side of a milk carton that a girl is putting down on the table before she sighs at just how dreamy the police officer’s eyes look despite the fact the MISSING printed above the picture making it kind of insensitive to think that.

(‘i choose you, larry.’)

***

‘i can’t believe you fucking did it again.’

‘how do you think i pay for this fucking hotel and the gas in the car that’s parked outside?’

‘you promised, you fucking promised!’

‘did they put you up to seduce me?’

‘no, they probably don’t even know either of us are into men. you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.’

‘don’t talk back to me, you fucking brat. i bet they did. you told your superior that the old fool larry keeps making eyes at you. i bet you two had a great laugh. tell me, how did you get yourself to sleep with me, who did you think of? or what did you think of? that elusive detective badge, maybe.’

‘i’m sor-‘ and you still wish your hand shrivels for what you did then. you hit him just to shut him up, tired of his ‘sorry’s, but apparently freddy isn’t finished even after you start apologizing.

‘murder me, larry. murder me like you murdered those policemen. come on, i’m not even a person, i’m police.’ he starts hitting your chest and makes angry, diabolical noises when you take hold of them. ‘murder me, murder me, i’m asking you to murder me.’

someone, probably hotel staff knocks on your hand as freddy starts screaming, high-pitched and you love it terribly, this freddy with hot blood in his veins and eyes that are coming to life. ‘murder me! murder me! murder me!’

later on, you find him in the small, cozy parisian café you two love visiting ever since you came here, holding hands across the table, soaking up the smell of freshly made croissants and chaos of busy mornings. he looks so delicate, soaked from the rain, messy hair itching for a good combing, lips wrapped around the straw through which he’s sipping on cherry coke as he holds the big, white phone to his ear.

he smiles at you, letting of the phone and it stuffs back in a box every harsh word and cold shoulder and deadly glare. freddy smiles and you can breathe again, tears coming to your eyes from the pain of it and from the the aching tenderness at the mere sight of his face.

‘i kept ringing you at the hotel, larry. i wanted to apologize.’

‘no need, sweet boy. no need. come on, finish up that girly drink.’

‘you’re still paying for it, old man.’

you don’t even make it to your room, rutting against each other in vacant hotel hallway before you take him in your arms as he squeals so endearingly and take him to the shower to warm up under the scalding water. you both come out of the shower in a cloud of steam before you fall into bed so you can mark freddy all over, to claim him, so he’s not anyone else’s, not even the lapd.

(‘what do you want, joe?’

‘someone in paris needs your expertise, larry and offers to reward you handsomely. consider this a blessing because i sure as fuck should have gutted you from fleeing with that fucking rat.’

‘that fucking rat chose me and saved our asses from jail so i expected you to be a tad more grateful.’

‘don’t forget what that boy is.’)

***

‘lawrence dimmick, you’re under arrest for robbery, kidnapping, endangering the life of a police officer and organized crime.’

you two were always going to end in disaster, you tell yourself over and over. either you’d kill each other or you’d kill the part of him that has any semblance to the freddy he was his entire life before meeting you.

(‘i’m sorry, sir. you’re not on the lawrence dimmick’s visiting list and as you’re not on the force anymore-‘)

‘thank you, margot. i understand.’)


End file.
